The Bat Paladin
by ShootingArrows
Summary: AU where Voltron takes place in the DC universe and Shiro is one of Bruce Wayne's adopted kids. Starts from Shiro's disappearance, continues past the season 2 finale
1. Chapter 1

**A/N Idea created on tumblr by me ( thecityofthefireflies) and newtsckamander**

 **Spoilers for Voltron season 1. Also for general Batfam canon**

Bruce deliberately ignored the ringing phone.

He was exhausted and just lifting his head to see which light on the monitor on his bed-stand was blinking was too much effort. The past month had been a hellish one. A world-wide threat had had the entire Justice League and every possible ally mobilized and constantly engaged for four weeks on end. Bruce had given himself the least breaks of all and they had finally shut down the entire operation fifteen hours ago. Bruce had debriefed and dismissed everyone on the Watchtower and then brought his brood back to Gotham and fallen asleep the second his head hit his pillow.

There were footsteps approaching his room - decisive and soft, distinctly Alfred.

The phone must be important enough for him to be woken up for.

Alfred opened his door, one gloved hand covering the receiver of the phone. There was an unreadable reserved look on his face, perhaps a tint of concern, or regret, or fear. Bruce couldn't tell but something didn't bode well.

"It's the Garrison, Master Bruce."

Ah. The Garrison. A now well-established private space exploration company and school facility. Bruce intellectually approved of them, after the Luthor Administration, it was a safer bet to have such a money-dependent scientific research facility separate from the government, but he still held some level of personal resentment for the Garrison.

Shiro had left him for the Garrison. Bruce really hadn't disapproved, Shiro had waxed poetic on space and how being an astronaut had been one of his earliest dreams. The bitterness came from the situation that spawned Shiro's secretive application and acceptance of a private school halfway across the country. Shiro had applied after Jason died.

He said he needed change to handle the loss of his younger brother. He never blamed Bruce the way Dick and Bruce himself had, nor had he blamed himself. He hadn't mentioned blame - just grief. So Bruce had signed all the paperwork, given him his blessings and a tight embrace, and sent his then youngest son to extended space camp.

That was years ago. Tim had come into their lives, and Cassandra, and Stephanie, and Jason had come back. Shiro had visited often, perks of a billionaire father meant he could fly back to Gotham every long weekend.

The phone Alfred handed to him was the designated parental phone, the number given to schools, civilian friends' parents, and other such persons.

"Hello?" Bruce tried to sound awake.

"Mr. Wayne? This is the Kerberos Mission ground-control commander. I don't want to alarm you, but protocol requires me to inform the designated contact of the astronauts. It's probably just a malfunction, but we're having communications interference with the Kerberos crew."

"You've lost contact with them." Bruce choked out. He felt cold. His hands were shaking but he kept his voice level. Communications issues were far from unheard of. If he was really concerned he could send Hal or John out to check on things - but he couldn't. It hit him that the Green Lanterns were in deep space by now, reporting back about the recent global incident. Hal had said he'd wave at Pluto when they went past. Dick and Stephanie had laughed at that.

"Yes. We don't have confirmation on why yet."

"Keep me updated." Bruce ordered into the phone. He felt so tired suddenly, weary from life and stress, but also like he'd never sleep again because how can he. His son was possibly in danger on the far side of the Solar System.

Ten years ago, Bruce would have said his most helpless moment had been watching his parents get gunned down and bleed out in Crime Alley. He had thought that being unable to do anything and therefore wasting the opportunity to be the epitome of helplessness.

Yesterday, he would have said that when Jason died was his low point. He had felt that having the skills and ability to have saved someone and just missing the chance by moments was real helplessness.

Now he was reconsidering. His son was in space and he was in both situations at once. He normally had contacts who could solve this, but they were gone. He had an opportunity but any efforts would be too late. This was true helplessness.

"Of course."

After that Bruce wasn't sure what pleasantries they exchanged to end the call. He was half on auto-pilot and half trying to figure out how to handle waking up and explaining to so many people that this happened.

Because Bruce was no optimist. He knew that if it was really just a short equipment issue they wouldn't have called Shiro's family. This was something serious.

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Five hours later, when the next call came, Bruce took it in the Batcave. The others were all surrounding him at the computer, dressed in civvies and staring at the sprawling screen that was tapped into the Watchtower's current data-stream from the direction of Pluto in one corner, and monitoring the Garrison headquarters in another, and skyping Clark and Diana to keep the league updated.

Dick's hand clenched on his shoulder to ground him and Cass and Steph were warmths to his right he could feel the proximity of.

"We have an update. Are you seated?" Bruce's heart felt like it was both stopped and pounding. In a moment of inspiration he put the phone on speaker so he wouldn't have to voice the words in repetition. He grunted some form of affirmation.

"We have lost contact with the Kerberos crew. We have evidence that their vessel was destroyed. We are assuming piloting error. The crew is presumed dead. We offer our condolences -" The phone cracked in Bruce's hand.

Piloting error.

They blamed his son. His son the astronaut. The one who wasn't supposed to die. The one he never spent nights awake worrying about.

Shiro had been the "token civilian" member of the family. He had preferred a support role more like Alfred to being a vigilante. Jason had been Robin and Dick was Nightwing and Shiro never expressed interest in creating his own mantle. Bruce had been very happy with this and the lack of stress over the safety of another child.

And now he was gone.

Diana was saying something over the screen about Clark and J'onn and some other league members heading to Pluto to verify as soon as possible.

Someone pried the phone out of his clenched hand and he repurposed his empty hand to press the teenagers clinging to his front closer to him. His eyes were too blurred to see who and he couldn't bring himself to care.

They were all one mass pressed together into a body of grief. Stephanie, Cassandra, Dick, Jason, Tim, Damian-.

Damian, who would never meet Shiro.

Damian had only been in Bruce's life for a year, and the six months before Shiro left for his mission had been busy and his short stints visiting Gotham had always happened to coincide with Damian's visits to his mother, or school trips, or extended missions.

They were anguished with no direction. No body. No culprit. No one to blame. No real need for violence to solve this outside of the catharsis from emotion it would provide.

He couldn't really blame the Garrison. He had checked their records and finances and intentions thoroughly and found them satisfactory enough to let them send his son hurtling into the void of space on a research mission.

Bruce wanted desperately to regret that. Shiro had wanted to be an astronaut and now Bruce wished he had instead chosen to be a vigilante because at least he would have been down here on Earth and Bruce could have died himself trying to protect him.


	2. Chapter 2

**a/n Idea created on tumblr by thecityofthefireflies (me) and newtsckamander**

 **spoilers for season 1 of voltron and general batfam**

When the Galra ship had first tractor-beamed him and the Holts up from the surface of Kerberos, he had hoped that they were just aliens who were overly enthusiastic and lacking in external communication methods.

And then when he was forced to his knees before what he assumed was their leader, a part of him still optimistically insisted that this was just some overly formal and rigid greeting custom.

From his experience aliens were just people -from other planets - but still people. He'd been enthusiastically prying stories about the cultures of Mars, and Tamaran, and Krypton and other planets from heroes for years. So he'd go along with the situation and their customs until he had a chance to explain his crew's mission and hopeful rectify the whole deal.

After all, this was why he wanted to be an astronaut, - why he had joined the Garrison. Yes, a few humans had been to places throughout the universe. The Green Lanterns were like intergalactic police, the Justice League had some crafts that were many times faster than the ship that Shiro had flown to Kerberos, but they all were used for missions - for tasks that required speed and had a goal of justice or desperate diplomacy.

Shiro was in this to explore. He wanted to not just fly by moons and planets, but to set foot on them, to admire the view while he orbited, and maybe to interact with new cultures in a more immersive way than a week-long crisis allowed.

However, now he was beginning to realize that he seemed to have drawn the short-straw on alien encounters in his family.

Bruce was best friends with a Kryptonian, Dick had helped introduce both Starfire and Miss Martian to the planet, and Tim and Kon were close. Although from looking at the canines on them, he was rather glad their translation program didn't involve kissing.

The ship's Commander? Captain? had called up someone who apparently outranked him and started speaking what Shiro heard as English, and he decided it was time to act. The Holts were both slumped with their helmets on and didn't seem inclined to take the initiative, but that was fine.

Shiro had been preparing a first contact spiel for nearly as long as he'd wanted to be an astronaut. It had worked on Superman. He hoped it would work now.

The Galra interrupted his "we come in peace" speech with a savage blow that knocked him unconscious.

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The next species he saw went little better.

The three of them had been dragged and marched to a large room filled with other shackled beings for an ominous "processing".

They were made to strip, scanned, sprayed with some vaguely ammonia-scented mist, scanned again and dressed in purple body suits and crop tops.

Matt started making a joke about the purple aesthetic that fell heavy when robot arms seized Sam Holt.

Callous limbs restrained Shiro and Matt and they hung shouting from their hold as Sam and a number of other aliens were pulled from the room; the tiny wasp like being with segmented legs that kept coughing, the thin wispy bamboo like pair, a hunched over green hominid, an old being wrapped in a shawl over the crop top with horns that curled three times before their point. The guards wouldn't say what was to come of those selected or of those left.

Shiro and Matt were shoved together into a dimly lit cell. There were already occupants, Shiro's eyes were still adjusting from the bright corridors, but he could hear and see bodies shifting along the walls. Shiro and Matt stayed still in the position they had been in when shoved in, half hunched and partly clinging to each other.

At last a deep voice came from the middle of the back wall.

"Can you speak?"

The question didn't sound hostile, more concerned.

"Yes." Shiro answered.

"Where do they take the old ones, where did they take the others-?" Matt cut in. Shiro nudged him sharply. "- I want to know where they took my father."

"Patience child, I can tell you." Came the voice again. The speaker shifted forward into the swath of light from the door, they were a hulking alien with brownish magenta fur covering them except for a circle of shiny glands in the middle of their chest. They had four arms, the lower two of which planted on curled knuckles like an ape to hold them up so they could lean forward and gesture them closer with their upper arms. Their face was foreign but kind, eyes full black and a muted glossy and mouth wide. Shiro was in awe.

"The Galra take the weaker prisoners to work in their labor camps."

"So they don't kill them." Matt said almost desperately.

"No, though many die working, they are not slaughtered outright." It was a paltry reassurance, but it answered Matt's questions. Shiro, however still had many inquiries into the whole situation, however he did not want to pester the first friendly alien they'd met in this hellish place.

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Matt seemed uninterested in their surroundings, after he had found out where his father was sent, he had shut down. He was sitting next to Shiro, pressed against his side, but staring at the floor with a furrowed brow.

When rations were given through a replicator-like inset rectangle that opened in the wall, the alien directed the distribution among the eight beings in the cell sternly from their place seated against the wall. After passing a water receptacle and servings of protein pellets that reminded Shiro of dog kibble and carbohydrate paste to Shiro and Matt, they regarded the pair with a thoughtful expression.

"You mentioned a parent and your eyes are fresh. Are you grown for your species?" Their low voice was again soft.

"Yes. I'm twenty-four and Matt is twenty-two years old." Shiro felt suddenly aware of his youth. "We are barely adults, but yes, we are grown."

"How long does your species live?"

"Eighty years, some longer, sometimes over one hundred." Shiro was warming up to conversation, he was always interested in the differences between aliens and humans, and Matt seemed to have perked up marginally to listen in.

"So you are adults for your kind. My youngest child, they are thirty and in secondary school. I am one hundred and thirty-seven. My mates will likely outlive me by another hundred." Their expression turned somber.

Shiro burned with a spark of righteous rage for this noble being. To have a lifespan like that, but seemingly no hope to see it, Shiro was disgusted with the universe, and now even more concerned for Matt and himself.

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"How do we understand what's being said?" Matt asked after they had overheard the guards yelling at the inhabitants of a nearby cell.

"The Galra took to using ancient Altean translation programs that are built into the computer mainframe of the ship. No one but the Alteans, or now, I suppose, some Galra, knows exactly how they work. Some form of adaptive brainwave system that interacts with the mind of the listener. It doesn't work on texts."

"So they can order their prisoners around, but we can't make use of any signs or control panels." Matt reasoned.

"Yes."

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That night they eventually slept against the wall near the alien and woke up to another meal of bland sustenance.

After the meal the alien warned them about the gladiator arena and what was to come. How they would be lined up in order, and the weapons allowed, and the sandy environment of the arena.

"Are the fights to the death?" Shiro asked. The alien looked sad.

"For newcomers like you, they often end up being so. After you survive that, not always - as long as you give a worthy show."

Matt paled. He had engaged more in the morning but still seemed dazed in a way that Shiro could not fault him for.

"What do you mean by a good show? Long or talented or-" Shiro began to ask, his mind going back to movie nights with his siblings and then dramatic calls of 'are you not entertained' that earned an amused glare from the cowl on missions.

"Bloody." The alien interrupted with a disapproving shudder. "The crowd is bloodthirsty, they want to see suffering and savagery."

Shiro found himself frowning, he did not like the ideas that were beginning to spin into plans in his head.

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After hearing the undefeated reputation of the gladiator, Myzax, who was to start the day's fight, Shiro knew he had to do something. He just didn't know when or what. It didn't seem possible to simply make a break for it while they were being escorted to the arena from their cell.

It was Matt's outburst of doubt, the first extended speech he'd done since the day before, that spurred Shiro into action.

Someone had to fight in this arena and Shiro wasn't going to let it be Matt. It had to be Shiro for so many reasons. Matt hadn't spent years watching expert martial artists train. Matt didn't have a comprehensive grasp of self-defense or any form of fighting. Matt hadn't sparred with dozens of people of different sizes and ability levels. Matt didn't know anatomy well enough to know where to inflict injuries, where to take a hit, or how much a human could survive. Matt hadn't had strategy drilled into his skull by listening to Bruce give the same lessons to child after child. Matt had no chance in this arena, Shiro had a small one.

So Shiro channeled the abilities of his father, and acted.

Shiro cut Matt's leg as neatly as he could. It would be a damaging, hindering wound, but not entirely incapacitating or crippling. Matt wouldn't be put to death for inefficiency but he would not be made to fight.

Shiro told Matt to take care of his father. He wished he could have had time to make sure Matt knew to take any chance he had of escape, and to not try to come back for Shiro. He wished he had time to tell Matt to find a Green Lantern. He wished he had time to tell Matt many things.

But strong hands were already on him pulling him towards his fate and away from Matt. Matt's scared eyes that had dawning comprehension drowning in fear were burning into him and he knew they would stay with him in his dreams for the rest of his life. However short that may be.

Shiro had been raised by heroes but never became one himself. Maybe he couldn't live his life as a bona fide superhero, but he could die by the principles of one.

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Shiro hadn't died.

The mantras and skills he had absorbed in Gotham City had kept him alive and without major injuries. He was scraped and sore and had a badly bruised rib, but nothing was broken when he was taken back to his cell.

The large alien in the back made a pained sound of inquiry when he was shoved into the room alone.

"He's alive. He got sent to the labor camp instead." Shiro didn't want to tell this kind being how he had felt the vibration up the sword into his wrist when it cut through Matt's flesh. Or how much harder he had to swing to cut through the thick skin of Myzax.

He did anyway that night, pulled flush to their side with a heavy arm resting on him.

Before he fell asleep he had wept. For Matt, for Sam, for himself. Then for Keith, and for his brothers and sisters, and Bruce and Alfred and the league and everyone he felt like he was disappointing by winning.

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After his first fight to the death, Shiro made it back to their cell before he threw up. He retched and retched and all he could see in the bile was the splatters of blood spilling onto the sand. Each spasm aggravated the bite on his shoulder that the now dead opponent had given him. It had been half healed by a cursory use of a light-based device and then covered by a skin-conforming synthetic bandage. It ached in time with his pulse.

Shiro retched on nothing, gagging and choking with tears in his eyes.

There was a heavy hand on his back, not rubbing in circles as his father or Alfred would have done, but resting as a still weight. For once, Shiro appreciated the difference.

"Have you killed before here?" They ask, unprompted.

"No." Shiro tries not to hear the echoes in his mind of Bruce's no killing mantra, and shouted arguments between everyone and Jason.

Shiro throbbed with self-loathing. He had had no choice but to strike down his opponent, who had been trying even harder to kill him. But he still felt like he had failed. Bruce would have found a way to incapacitate his opponent. So would Dick. Tim could have wielded the thin broken pipe he had stolen from the swivel-jointed appendage of his opponent nearly as well as his staff. Cass wouldn't have needed to make a choice. Jason wouldn't have cared.

Shiro didn't have the strength of personality to justify his actions despite the circumstances. All he had were convictions beyond his ability level. He felt less like a hero and more like the creatures of the shadows they fought.

"If you _want_ it to get easier each time, it does." They paused and sighed. "I find it does not."

Shiro considered this. He could dehumanize the aliens. It would be so easy, just to see them as monsters, boogeymen from nightmares and mediocre movies. But that would be hypocritical to everything he had stood for before this. And it would dehumanize him even more.

"I don't want it to."

The alien nodded.

"You already seem to understand the benefits of ending a fight with injury, many of us at the level you are now employ this tactic against new prisoners and weak ones. At least we aren't killing them directly." Shiro felt his spirit warmed an increment by the praise. "But as you rise in the levels of the arena, you will face more and more gladiators who revel only in slaughter. Some are those who choose to fight for the opportunity for violence. Some have enough favor with sponsors that any injury will be healed. If you do not kill those, they will only kill the weaker opponents they face after you."

Shiro wondered if this was how Jason rationalized his decisions. That if he didn't kill a criminal, their next victim would die instead. Shiro had always somewhat understood his reasoning, even if he hadn't agreed at the time, but now, faced with the decision himself, he felt a pang for his brother.

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After his second kill, their cell has more space now. Their numbers have dropped to five and new prisoners haven't been shoved in to replace those lost yet.

Shiro had been in the first fights of the day, and now was back before the other gladiators. The cell wasn't empty, but the two aliens still in there stayed in the corners next to the door and spared him little more than a glance.

This fight had been physically exhausting, and the alien had latched onto his arm and dragged him close with xir dying strength to stare into his eyes with an unrepentant stare that slowly faded.

Xir bodily fluid had been cleansed from him before he was thrown back into the cell, but in the dim light he could almost see the stains on his hands and feel them spreading up his arms.

He lay on his side, half curled, staring at his shaking palms, facing the back wall.

He didn't know how much time passed, but then the door was opening again, and the size and shape of the shadow that flashed on the wall before the metal sealed off the brightness of the hallway told him it was the large alien. The sound of the door and the quiet after made Shiro realize detachedly that he was hyperventilating, and filling the room with rushed breaths.

He didn't turn around but he felt the alien cross the room in a few strides and crouch beside him.

"My name is Solaan. I'm a Valdoran from the Lanx Moon Colony. And you?"

Shiro's wet gasps slowed.

"I'm Takashi Shirogane, a Human of Earth." Shiro hadn't taken Bruce's name when he was adopted. That would have made what happened too real, and neither Dick nor Jason had added the "-Wayne". It had been made clear that a name wasn't what made them family. Solaan made an approving noise.

"My kind mates in threes to reproduce. We all have a third of the genetic material and take turns nourishing the developing infant. So I have two mates. We met in art school. I am an architect, if you'd believe that. I favor sweeping arched ceilings and light glass structures. Lyrus is a weaver, they minored in history, and use that as a subject in their work. Some of their tapestries are in our planet's museums. Frund is a sculptor. They started using clay and stone, but in recent years began experimenting with wood and natural materials."

By the end of the speech Shiro had rolled onto his back and was looking at them.

"Did any of your buildings get made?"

"Not any of my grandiose plans," They let out a short laugh. "But I did see a few law offices made."

Shiro smiled wanly.

"What is your job?" Solaan asked at length.

"I'm an astronaut. I signed up for this." Shiro didn't have the fortitude to sound bitter.

"Oh. My kind haven't had astronauts in centuries." A hand brushed over his hair.

"We're pretty new to the space thing. I doubted I'd meet any aliens beyond microbes on this trip."

The hands pressed more firmly against Shiro and he tried to only focus on those points of pressure.

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Solaan made sure he survived when his face was cut.

The injury had been healed enough that he would not bleed out - as was the way for gladiators' injuries - but he was still left in agony.

His whole head throbbed from the swelling, and his world swum on the edge of unconsciousness every time he choked around a loosened blood-clot. He'd thrown up twice, a painful experience that left him incoherent and shaking.

It would have been unbearable alone. But Solaan had been there as soon as they had been released from their own fight.

Solaan stabilized him with their arms while another set used ripped his crop-top into rags to wipe his mouth and another to cool his brow.

Solaan crooned nonsense at him while he rested against their side. Even when regained his composure he could not bring himself to pull away.

When he realized that the crunch of the kibble-like protein food sent spikes of agony through his head, the serving was exchanged for their carbohydrate paste without prompting.

Three days later, in the medical facility after his first fight since the injury, the alien getting treated across the room from him informed him that in one of the matches Solaan had been in while he recovered, they had killed the being that had cut him.

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He killed three more notorious gladiators, one with sharpened teeth that left deep cuts that only just missed the tendons in his calf by a centimeter, one with metal barbs on their tail that raked a set of scars across his back, and one that sprayed acid that burned through his crop top and bodysuit and into his skin. He told himself it was a hero's job to protect the weak. That killing monsters did not a monster make. He told himself not to be a hypocrite to Jason.

After the third fight, instead of taking him back to the cell with the kind Solaan who told him stories that made him feel like himself again he was taken to a small lilac-lit cell that was a third of the size of the shared one. He was in a form of solitary, it seemed isolation was to be his latest torture.

In the hallways he now overheard the words of the Galra guards and the other prisoners. "Bloodthirsty" and "Killer" and over and over again "Champion".

Apparently the persona he was cultivating with blood was now too dangerous to live with others. Like the beings he killed, he was now separated from the prisoners.

His life was becoming the four walls of his cell, the unending and undimmed lilac lights, the roar of the crowd rushing in his ears, and the feeling of self-betrayal burning his soul each time he fought.

He would come back to his cell and weep and then make himself rise and exercise, choking down increased portions of protein kibble and doing push-ups and wall-sits and crunches until his mind blanked. He wanted to survive, he told himself he needed to for the Holts and to warn earth, but really it was because he was too much of a coward to die. He cursed his convictions again.

They never took him out of his cell except to go to the arena every few days for another fight.

Meals were brought in what he assumed was morning and at night, or before and after a match. His only hygiene was the freshening of his appearance before he was sent out onto the sand, and the clean-up in the callous medical facility afterwards. It was a routine.

Until it wasn't.

The guards - two more than usual, surrounding instead of flanking him - roused him from his sleep and hauled him from his cell and turned corners he hadn't expected and took him to a chamber with a table in the middle and the sound of crackling lightning in the corners.

Then, they took his arm.


	3. Chapter 3

**_Thank y'all so much for your support with this story so far._**

 ** _This is chapter 3 out of approximately 10_**

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In general, things get easier with repetition. Stage actors recite lines over and over until they're engrained in memory. Athletes develop muscles through use. Accuracy is learned by doing the same shot a thousand times.

Bruce wished grief and loss operated by this principle.

He was no stranger to death. From that fateful night in his childhood when he lost his parents, to friends and young partners, he had buried many people. He had mourned and struggled to move on and coped with so much loss.

And yet, a vast majority of those people he had grieved for had come back. Jason had come back. Stephanie had actually survived. Clark and perhaps half the league had been considered dead at some point. Statistically, Bruce should be skeptical of the validity of any presumed death.

Experience now left him in a rather precarious position. A bit like schrodinger's cat, Shiro was presumed dead but had a chance of being alive. The question now was which did Bruce focus on. Mourning him under the assumption he was dead like his parents and most of the population, while harbouring the slight and fated-to-be-slowly-crushed hope that presumptions were wrong and he was alive? Or to expect him to be alive and have reality wear down on him with each day of uncertain absence? Either one could destroy him in the long run.

And how long did he search? How far into space until Shiro was truly beyond any hope of finding? Did he continue like a one-track record while his friends agreed to search to his face and then plotted interventions behind his back? And what approach did he take with the rest of the family? Would it be healthier for them to mourn without doubt? Or to harbour hope that he would be found?

Instead of lessening his conundrum, investigation only exacerbated it.

A Justice League investigation of the icy moon had found no evidence of the spaceship crashing. In fact, the vehicle was completely intact. Shiro and the Holts had made it safely to Kerberos and had left their ship in their excursion suits with all the planned equipment.

The first experiment site however, told a darker tale.

Every part of the Kerberos mission was expertly planned. GPS and previous probes had plotted down to the meter where the work was to be conducted.

That exact location was decimated. Something powerful had wrought a swath of destruction that had shredded the ice and rock surface and left only mangled fragments of the metal drill tripod.

The part that left the most questions was the lack of evidence of the crew. No fragments of spacesuits. No helmet shards. No fabric fibers. No bodies. No charred carbon. They were simply gone.

The worst case scenario was that they were dead in some way that left no evidence, but no other matter was missing from the area. Re-arranged, yes, but unaccounted for? No.

Until the Green Lanterns returned from meeting with the Guardians, there was no way to identify any residual alien energy or microparticles they might have found.

Bruce's desperate hope for his son was alien abduction.

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A telescope was added to the memorial case.

It looked as out of place as it felt - a mundane object flanked by costume-clad mannequin torsos and propped weaponry.

It had been the first gift Bruce had given Shiro. A settling-in present after he'd lived with him for a month and offhandedly mentioned over dinner how many more stars he could see from the Wayne property than the city. So Bruce had bought him a telescope.

It was moderately sized, nothing huge but big enough that Shiro could see some of the fainter and more delicate nebulae.

Shiro had been enamored with it. Astronomy became his nightly activity when he wasn't helping man the batcomputer, allowing him to be on a schedule more compatible with the family.

Bruce remembered many times when he'd come up from the batcave after patrol to find Shiro clothed but asleep in a chair with a star chart open in his lap, and when woken, he'd drag Bruce to the telescope he'd left outside to show him some Messier object.

It became accepted fact that if there was any sort of high profile event at an observatory or space exhibit, Bruce Wayne would be accompanying his middle son there.

Recently, the observatory had invited Bruce for the first use of a new lens the Wayne family had donated money for a year ago. Bruce declined to attend. The observatory said they understood and expressed their empathy. The tabloids understood his absence too.

One of the truly worst things about a civilian identity was the public relations of when things like this happened. Even if he had a search underway for what really happened to Shiro's, he still had to deal with the civilian side of things.

When Jason had died it had been easier to keep things low key and although the family had celebrity status then, not there was a whole decade more of notoriety. Shiro had been a public figure as an adult in his own right. And the mere fact he was an adult added levels of complexity.

Like lawyers, and wills.

Shiro's last will and testament was a harsh, physical reminder that his son was a decade older than Jason had been. Shiro had an impeccable will, drawn up by a Wayne recommended firm.

He left a few sums to various funds, plans for a new charity, and items for his brothers and sisters and for his oft-spoken-of friend Keith.

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Shiro's death was public knowledge and scandal, on the news for weeks and then months as the Garrison investigation into the incident continued.

There were three memorials Bruce had felt obligated to attend.

The private one that the Justice League attended, with friends whose raw glances of sympathy were the only ones Bruce found tolerable. They had known Shiro for the decade since his adoption and were also feeling his loss keenly.

There was the public memorial held in Gotham where a crowd turned out and lay flowers and ribbons for one of the city's famous sons. Gotham had been proud to have famously from her embark on a historic space mission. Shiro's publicity tour before the mission had been well received. Bruce hadn't minded saying a few words to the crowd there as much as he feared he would.

Then there was the Garrison memorial attended by both those graduated and attending there.

Shiro's training team and close friends were sitting in their own section next to the one for families of the team. There was a variety of twenty-somethings and one younger teen that Bruce recognized as Keith.

Bruce had never actually meet Keith. He had heard much about Keith. Shiro had called and told him many stories about Keith, including on the day they had met. Bruce had seen many photos and short videos of Keith. But Bruce had never met Keith in person.

And a memorial was a hard place to start.

After the Garrison speech that waxed poetic on his son's talents and love of his job and a touching note about how his contributions to science would not be forgotten, Bruce exchanged sympathy with the Holts and intended to introduce himself to the boy. But by then Keith had left.

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Hal Jordan was standing in his usual civilian clothes and jacket in front of the memorial case staring at the telescope with wet tracks on his face.

Bruce put his coffee mug down on the nearest flat surface.

"I just got back from Oa… Diana told me…" he didn't turn to look at Bruce. Bruce grunted noncommittally. "I didn't know… I waved at Pluto as I passed…"

"He would have appreciated that." Bruce eventually said.

"I'm heading back out. I'll scan everything. I just- I needed to come here first." Hal finally faced Bruce, eyes searching. "I keep picturing when he was a kid and he'd follow me around the watchtower asking questions. Every flight back to Earth I'd spend preparing what stories I'd tell him. I was so proud when he aced piloting and when he was selected for this mission, but now I can't help but fear this was all somehow because of my influence. Piloting… space…"

"Hal… Shiro loved space since long before even I knew him. As much as you're his favorite Uncle, he was determined on this path since childhood. You can't blame yourself any more than I can for letting him go to that school." They were standing next to each other, shoulder to shoulder facing the case again. Hal nodded silently but grateful.

"I'm going to search Kerberos for any clues. Then I'll go back to Oa to research. If he's out there, I won't give up until I've found him or the truth." Hal declared, voice heavy, and then flew out the cave entrance.

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In the past decade or so, Bruce's social persona had become more bearable. "Brucie" had transitioned from "ditzy but well-meaning playboy" to "ditzy but well-meaning playboy and father". His public persona had to appear responsible enough for no one to question his custody of half a dozen youths.

Bruce had found the easiest way to accomplish this was to cultivate a new hobby of showing off his kids at any opportunity. He had a wallet packed with school photos, albums of pics and videos on his phone, and a wealth of stories he could share in any conversation.

Instead of having to convince people that "Brucie" had suddenly become an extremely responsible adult, he could simply start bragging.

"My Cassie is doing triple pirouettes in ballet, I have a video of it right here that you simply must see"

"Look at Damian and his science project! I don't think our carpets will ever be the same."

"Shiro sent me this pic from the flight simulator at his astronaut school. He's top of his class and set a school record for highest score"

It was far more satisfying than bumbling and flirting had been in his younger years. He still winked at the ladies and broke a few wine glasses every now and then, but mostly he blathered about his brood. This had the added benefit of boring and discouraging gold-diggers and those arrogant people who disapproved of the bloodlines of most of his family. Bruce was proud that there was so much to boast about.

Of course now his public reputation as a family-man and celebrity status meant that he had to address what happened on multiple television shows, and magazine interviews, and online forums.

It was a seemingly unending slur of similar statements.

"Shiro knew the risks, it's like I said in the Kent interview for the Daily Planet, Shiro talked it over with the family, he felt that any danger was worth it and even in his will he reminded us that this was what he wanted to dedicate his life to, however much time that would be."

"I think - and I'd hope I'd know as his adoptive father - that what Shiro would want for the future of space exploration would be for it to continue. Learn from his mission, make it so the next one is a success. Go beyond Kerberos someday. Meet some aliens."

"It's hard on all of us, but we're trying to get through it as a family, to remember the better times."

"No, I don't blame the Garrison, like I've said, Shiro accepted the risks and chose that job. Now we have to accept what Shiro wanted. I've always said I encourage the kids' interests and respect their decisions, I can't stop doing that just because I don't like the outcome."

"What do I have to say to the parents of kids who want to be astronauts? Encourage them. Buy them a telescope, watch their eyes light up at night. In fact, that's why I'm creating the Shiro Space Foundation, to help fund and organize the formation of astronomy clubs in schools. Because that's what my son would want."

Slowly the media ran out of similar questions and sympathy statements to use the Wayne name with, but Bruce knew that each release of new info about the mission would only restart the onslaught.

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Dick and Cass went to collect a few of Shiro's things and some gifts and cards from the Garrison.

They also were checking in on Keith, something requested in Shiro's will.

Dick reported back that he was seeing the facilities counselor for required visits and that a few upperclassmen who had been friends with Shiro were keeping an eye on him.

Cass told Bruce that she read the boy as taking it hard and blaming authority.

Jason came back from a second visit laughing bitterly. Apparently Keith knew of him from stories as "Jay", Shiro's brother who hated the media and therefore hid from it. Jason then made a bittersweet observation.

"He's an angry at the world black haired orphan. Apparently your taste in trainee is a family trait. That's probably why he never brought him home here, Alfred would have given him a room thinking he was one of yours."

Bruce tried to focus on how proud he was of Shiro for taking someone under his wing. That kind of compassion was an excellent trait to have.

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Batman hesitated before emerging from the shadows on the rooftop. Around the corner of the structure housing the roof-exit access Spoiler and Red Hood were supposed to be waiting for him. But he heard a third, female voice that was not Black Bat. It was Catwoman, but her tone was serious.

"-y'know him, he's getting a little antsy,definitely plotting, but the rest of us can keep him distracted for a few more weeks at least."

"Even the time you've given us so far has helped. I don't know if he's noticed but-" Red Hood was the one to reply.

"-Not that we couldn't have handled it without him, but he'd take control of everything." Spoiler interjected with a hint of defensiveness. Batman could picture her crossed arms and cocked jaw.

"I know. And if something does happen, I'm not the only one willing to help you this time." Catwoman reassured. "The Rogues respect Batman enough to give him time to mourn, plus, you heroes hit harder when you're upset."

Batman felt a cold wash percolate down his spine at the vague reminder of what had happened. He aggressively ignored that to digest the new information. Retrospectively, the past few weeks had been quiet, with no capers by the usual miscreants, only mundane petty criminal violence.

The past month had left him so busy with his civilian life that he hadn't had time to dwell on why things had been so quiet after hours. Suddenly a number of recent events made far more sense in the lense of the Rogues knowing something.

The flowers on his patrol route being unseasonably lush with their blooms open a little longer past dusk than natural.

Harleen Quinzel saluting him with a solemn expression while walking her hyenas in pajamas at five in the morning.

Bank robbers found trying to thaw out their getaway car's frozen engine.

Batman was brought back to the conversation by Red Hood speaking again.

"What exactly did you tell them? Because it's not like they ever saw-… It's not like when it was me and they noticed the lack of Robin."

"I kept it vague," Catwoman paused, voice tired, "Just that Batman had an adult civilian son and he…"Her voice choked off. "That was enough for them to understand. Enough of them have civilian relatives themselves."

"Thank you." Spoiler reiterated.

"Of course. And how are you kids handling it. I know I'm no counselor but Batman is an emotional brick. If you need to talk…" Catwoman offered.

"It's hard but we're all working through it together." Spoiler answered slowly.

"Yeah, helps that there's no hard feelings and no blame… just grief. He was… he was close to each of us in a different way and that's something we all have in common."

"There are a lot of good times to remember and talk about."

"I'm rather relieved you're coping well. I didn't know him as well as you, but from our limited encounters, I am grateful I knew him."

Catwoman was gone when Batman showed up on the rooftop to confer with his silently waiting partners.

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Bruce had loved the night for years. He spent most of his time out in the dark and, in between the moments of staccato sensation of fighting, there was the peace and calm. The lights of Gotham danced in the streets below him, a distant world of nightly reverie he watched and protected.

Thirty years ago, before the ordinances and bulb replacement projects he had heavily backed, the light pollution from the street lights and skyscrapers had drowned out all but the brightest of stars from the sky. Now it was greatly lessened and entire constellations were visible in the breaks in the clouds.

Bruce could remember driving out to the countryside with his parents as a small boy, lying out on a blanket on a grassy hill, and marvelling at the constellations while his parents spun the tales of the myths that those celestial patterns told.

Now, the stars were mocking points of light - too literal spots of hope on the inky darkness of reality. The night sky held Bruce's hopes and fears.

If he felt embittered by the sky from Gotham, it was nothing to time on the Watchtower. He did not let himself shirk monitor duties there, no matter how many offers of coverage he was given by every other member of the League. Instead he would carry out his shift, sitting in a silence more stony than previous, resolutely focusing on the computers and monitors, not the expansive viewports.

He still freshly remembered the first time Shiro had come to the watchtower. He had left Gotham to Dick, Jason, and Barbara and taken Shiro to the nearly empty space station. Shiro hadn't asked to see the Watchtower after he had found out that the league had a headquarters in orbit, he had still been too hesitant with his role in his new family and afraid of pushing a limit to request that. He had, however, asked a slew of questions about the station and the brightness in his eyes had allayed any reservations Bruce may have had about taking a "civilian" there.

Shiro had been fourteen and a set of long, coltish limbs restraining trembles of excitement. His arms had been clinging to a stack of books - homework and an astronomy book - and his eyes had been wide behind the rudimentary domino mask Bruce had deemed necessary.

Diana had smiled at his enthusiasm on her way out.

Bruce had picked a night where the only league members present were ones who already knew his identity, Shiro's wasn't one he was willing to risk haphazardly. The less people who knew about his connection to Batman, the safer both the family's identities and Shiro himself were.

He had given Shiro a tour, showing and explaining much of the systems that ran the watchtower and lingering at viewports on each side. Then they had returned to the monitors and Shiro had spent the rest of the evening staring out the windows and telling Bruce his observations.

In his early teen years Shiro became a fixture of Bruce's shifts there. He went with him every opportunity he was allowed. Bruce also liked that it let Shiro meet his "coworkers" without having Shiro anywhere near real combat or inviting more people to the batcave.

Even as he aged, Bruce had given him clearance to come to the watchtower to visit during weekends off from the school campus.

He associated the watchtower nearly as much with Shiro as associated it with the Justice League. It was a hard place to be.

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It was the middle of the afternoon when Bruce's phone pinged. His personal cellphone that was linked with the bat computer.

Damian was at work with him today, rocking in a swivel chair with a textbook balanced on his knees, and he lunged for the device before Bruce could.

"I know what phone this is. Is there some attack or something happening?" He read the notification with a furrowed brow, textbook readily abandoned and shoved to the floor.

Bruce reached over and snatched the device out of his hands. It was a series of symbols and code words sent to him by an automated monitoring system linked to the batcomputer. He opened his laptop, inserted a black bat-logo'd flash drive, and interfaced with the cave computer.

"Someone's hacking a specific part of the Garrison computer." Bruce said to fill Damian in. His son had moved to hover around his right side to watch the screen over his shoulder.

"Why would they do that? Is someone trying to launch a rocket?"

"No, they're accessing probe and transmission records from a secure file. What I'm trying to figure out is who's doing it." Bruce explained, fingers moving quickly and gaze focused.

"Is it foreign? Wasn't Luthor mad that space exploration privatized?" Damian speculated. Bruce grunted and frowned, pausing. He was secretly keeping tabs on anything related to the Garrison Kerberos mission. He had minor alerts for new or changed information in them, copies of all deleted files, and notifications when certain people accessed them. This was the first time a compromise alert had come in.

"The hacking coming from inside an office at the Garrison headquarters. But the computer is marking it as an intrusion."

"Maybe the guy just forgot his password." Damian was obviously disappointed at the anticlimactic answer.

"Ah. Whomever is doing this is using outdated security passwords for minor things. Passwords that weren't flagged immediately as incorrect." Bruce's brow uncreased.

"Why? Shouldn't a facility like that have at least some cyber security?"

"They do. Their computer didn't automatically classify this as an attack because the codes used were those of Sam Holt."

"Oh." Damian became quiet, almost cautious, the way that was becoming typical with anything regarding Shiro. Bruce appreciated that Damian, who often frankly expressed his opinions of people, had been keeping quiet about Shiro and what happened around his siblings. Damian was very hit or miss for his interactions with people and only then in the long run. Bruce, despite mental efforts otherwise, found himself wondering at the lost potential of what Shiro and Damian's relationship would have been.

The results of a cursory look at the Garrison indoor security cameras proved Bruce's hypothesis of the identity of the hacker correct. He closed his laptop. It would be hypocritical to deny access to her when she had as much right to those files and the truth as he did and for the same reasons


	4. Chapter 4

**Well it has been a Long Ass Time folks. All i can say is that pretty much every excuse in the book applies, a busy senior year of high school, writers block, doubts, changing fandoms, busy summer, busy college, etc.**

 **But, starting in Nov. I've been going to a 4 day a week writing group and that's really helping me dedicate time to this so I really think the next chapter will be only in a month or smth. That's about as much as I can promise.**

 **I will never let it go this long again.**

 **Idea created by me Thecityofthefireflies and Tchailla on tumblr**

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The hand they gave him was so intimate a weapon.

A sword, though a close-quarters weapon that made him watch the light fade from his opponents' eyes and left him splattered with blood, was at least impersonal. It was a detachable item that had transferred only vibrations up his arm and across his shoulder. He could at least physically cast off that brutal role of warrior at the end of every fight.

The arm was personal. Cutting through flesh, even with the hand alit, had a horrible sensation. There was a microsecond of resistance, before, like crushing a grape, the flesh gave and was sheared like paper. He could smell meat charring, feel the pulse of body systems, taste the rancid breath of last exhales.

The arm felt like an extension of himself in so many ways, but it was impossible to forget it was artificial. The Galra technology was extremely advanced, it had a smoother and greater range of motion than the joints on a real hand would, but the sensations were subtly different. It had temperature and pressure and texture sensors that were more than adequate. But flesh has a give to it. Even the most taut musculature has squishy skin over it and feels organic. The arm was solid and hard metal, there was no molding slightly to a surface, it either touched or it didn't. Texture was another jarring change. Instead of the grooves of a fingerprint and the pad of a finger feeling out a surface, it was a staccato vibration of metal finger clipping a surface.

The reality of what the Galra had done to him settled in again with each fight. And with it came the reality of the life he was living.

Sometimes he considered just letting himself die. It would be absurdly easy to let himself lose a fight. Battling to a win was strenuous and unpleasant. If he so wished, he could just pick an opponent and weapon trajectory that would kill him so swiftly after he thudded to the sandy floor that he would not even have to hear the roar of the crowd.

But each time faced with that choice he did not pursue it. Each time he clung with desperate claws to life.

During a fight, his flesh arm had been cut - a messy snag of talons shearing out a groove of bicep. The pain was a dangerous distraction and Shiro had danced backwards, staggering away to gain distance and a moment's respite.

He needed space and time to think.

Shiro sprinted across the sand and leaned against a pillar with his back to the focus of the action. Judging by the crowd and the grunts and wet slurps combined with suddens rips, the alien was occupied goring a fallen gladiator, another red tally in Shiro's ledger of failure.

And he was at a crossroads. This wound could kill him. The bleeding was heavy and not slowing, and this fight was far from over. It was not the worst injury he had sustained, but usually the bloodiest gashes came in the desperate close attacks that ended a match and returned him to the callous care of the medical facilities. He needed something immediate to survive the rest of this fight.

A horrid idea struck him and he stared at his foreign, bloodstained palm.

He used the hand to shoddily cauterize the injury, the pain enough that the addition of searing and the stench of charred flesh did not outweigh the benefit of stopped blood flow. Using the Galra hand to save his life left a foul taste in his mouth.

But he did it regardless.

He told himself he was living for Earth, to warn them. For Solaan, whose eyes softened the few chances they had to meet gazes and would send reassuring nods in his direction. For the weaker prisoners, the untested, untried who had never held a weapon before and were sent into the arena to be slaughtered as blood fodder to rile up the crowd before the real fights.

He was not living for himself.

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Despite being in a family and lifestyle of vigilantes, Shiro did not have a consistent codename. He'd tried out Nightjar, and had stuck with Starling for years, but none had truly clicked. His siblings ended up calling him variations of spaceman and space themed jokes. Nothing had become a second identity the way Batman was for Bruce or Oracle was for Barbara.

Until now. The whispers of "Champion" had spread after those early fights, echoing from cells in the corridors and jeered by opponents, and now it was notorious.

He had always understood the theoreticals behind creating a separate persona for vigilantism, but never before had he truly understood the inherent power in a dual identity. It was equal parts blessing and curse.

It helped in the arena, because it was not space cadet Shiro fighting, it was not brother or son Shiro fighting, it was not pilot Shiro, it was The Champion. And as The Champion he could be brutal, he could spill blood, he could growl in pain and rage and then slink back to his cell and weep as Shiro.

However there were times when he felt the liberation of his role as The Champion could be too consuming. It made it easier to use tactics with the intent to kill.

His technique had changed as he rose in the ranks, his opponents more and more often other vicious victors and now rarely helpless blood-fodder. And so he was employing lessons taught to him less by Bruce or Diana or Dinah, but more by Solaan.

His crash-course in alien anatomy had been shallow because of the sheer variety he might face. Solaan had instead drilled into him the strategy of going for the neck. They had explained that nearly all species have some form of head or brain encasement and targeting its attachment to the body is a safe bet for conquering any unknown alien.

Shiro had received this advice early in his days as a gladiator, but had not the stomach to implement it for many weeks.

And now, with his Galra hand that split keratin plates like butter, he could attack with deadly force.

He couldn't help but keep up a count of the outcomes of his fights. Both the deaths he did not prevent, and the ones he caused. And as the blood spilled and numbers grew he could little help but notice that he was far beyond the realm of most criminals.

There were people serving life sentences who had snuffed far fewer flames than he, - cells in Arkham filled by those who had never used their own hand to end a life, - mug-shots of faces who had never felt the spray of blood from a torn jugular. He was on par with the monsters.

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Shiro sat up from the microscope he had been looking into. Bruce had asked him to compare the weave and wear of two pieces of cloth from crime scenes and he needed to sit back and think about it.

Shiro could hear grunts from the out-of-site training floor where Cass and Jason were sparring and the rattle of Dick's gymnastic equipment.

Tim and Steph were monopolizing an empty table with a sprawl of homework.

It was a good day in the cave. Shiro smiled as the thought came accompanied with new inspiration for examining fiber fraying and hunched back over, adjusting a lense.

"Hey English Question. Need an example of extended allusion or metaphor in something I read this semester." Stephanie broke the silence. Shiro felt satisfied pride that she was comfortable to ask. When she had first switched to Gotham Academy on a Wayne Scholarship, she had pushed herself, determined not to let Bruce down and certain that meant independency. Actually, Bruce encouraged teamwork and consultation in the family.

A perk of most of them going through the same school, one with tenure and established curriculum meant that the chances of someone having previously done an assignment was high.

Shiro looked up from his microscope again.

" _Old Man and the Sea_. Santiago is Jesus. He gets hand injuries, he makes 'a noise similar to that of a man having nails driven through his hands'. At the end, he collapses on his bed and he's lying with his hands out like a cross." Shiro remembered doing that same outline.

"Thanks Captain Kirk" Steph called. Shiro groaned, anticipating the oncoming chorus.

"Actually, since he's a pilot isn't he more Sulu?" Dick commented helpfully, dropping down from his set of parallel bars and walking over, wiping sweat from his brow onto his faded Gotham Knights shirt.

Tim snorted. "He strikes me as more Travis Mayweather."

Shiro smiled around the cave fondly. His eyes catching with Stephanie's gaze. She was grinning at him, smile shining beneath a plain domino mask. Batman was the only one in the cave in full regalia - the rest just wore dominoes. Bruce didn't want to risk a bare-face showing up in the background of a video call.

Stephanie faltered and in her place was Haggar, a feral smirk stretching her features. She was there just long enough for Shiro to register and then it was back to Steph, rolling her eyes and shoving Tim with her shoulder.

Shiro slowly pushed his chair back from the table, the screech of the base on the floor ringing louder than the rest of the sounds of the cave. He felt something cold and heavy settle in his core. He stood up, the banter continuing with Jason and Cass entering the main area, hair equally mussed and matching towels over their necks.

Shiro walked over to Haggar-Stephanie. She was flickering more frequently now. He looked around again. No one else seemed to be noticing this.

"Is Scarecrow in Arkham?" He asked cautiously. For once he prayed this was fear toxin. He needed to know now though, before he took action.

He only had experienced the effects once, in his youth, when the Batmobile had rolled into the cave where he was waiting, after watching an intense and dramatic showdown between Scarecrow and Batman and Robin and Nightwing that had culminated unsatisfactorily in Scarecrow's escape.

He had been overwrought and ran to the returned trio, and embraced them in turn, clinging and unknowingly inhaling residual Fear Toxin.

Everyone had been exhausted and Shiro already upset enough that the preliminary signs went unnoted and he, and everyone else, had gone to bed.

They were woken later by him screaming, eyes open but unseeing, awake in a nightmare. Bruce had administered the antidote and stayed with him for the rest of the night.

That raw, unbridled terror at things that had seemed real was not something he wanted to re-experience, nor did he want to act on unfounded and strange visions. If this was a hallucination he did not want to hurt his family.

"He is. And his rehabilitation reports are showing progress." Bruce answered from the Batcomputer. He was still facing Oracle. Good. Shiro didn't want him watching.

Haggar was there long enough to let out a laugh and then it was back to Stephanie, smiling up at him. She looked trusting. He lit his arm up.

Shiro put his glowing Galra appendage through his little sister's heart and it hurt in a way no weapon could.

Stephanie burst into a puff of mist with a brightness that momentarily disoriented Shiro from his stricken state.

The others were continuing with their conversation, ignoring the absence of Stephanie.

Now Dick was the one flickering to a shorter, white haired frame and then back to himself. Shiro strode towards him on steadier legs than he thought he ought to have.

"Do you want a sweaty hug, sweat-ie?" Dick said, laughing with arms spread, showing the mottled dark patches on his shirt. It flashed to Haggar with spread robes.

"Please no. Don't do this." Shiro muttered, and chopped Dick in half. He too burst out of existence.

Shiro swiveled around, watching each of the rest of the family, dreading any of the options of who could be next.

Jason sputtered-his eyes glowing yellow. He had a shit-eating grin. "Actually I think you're more Wesley."

He was still laughing when Shiro dispersed him. It was perhaps worse that they did not react, merely acting as if everything was normal until they disappeared. Shiro was the only one shaking, the only one wracked with guilty choked sobs.

Shiro was in the middle of the triangle of Tim, Cass, and Bruce. A bolt of gratitude struck him that Alfred wasn't present in this hellscape.

Cass, with her typical understated delivery, placed a hand on his chest.

"R2-D2." She said decisively. He smiled. Even as another sister turned to Haggar and the hand resting on his pectoral gained sharp nails and dug into his flesh painfully.

After he did away with Cass, Tim was next. Shiro went through the motions quickly and with as little thought as possible. It pained him how practiced this was already becoming.

And then Bruce. Destroying even an image of Bruce would only drive home more solidly how far he had deviated from the principles his adoptive father had instilled in him.

Bruce was smiling at him - the little curve of his closed lips that could slip past the seriousness of the batcave and the cowl.

Shiro stared at his own eyes reflected in the lenses of the mask and hated himself. The face looking back could not be his own now, because the rip across his nose was missing and those eyes did not burn with the haunted exhaustion he ached with.

Shiro searched Bruce's visage for an apology he did not deserve and with the destruction of Batman, the Batcave melted into darkness.

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There was a heavy anticipation of pain and gore, a speculation of whether this would be a fight uphill against a savage opponent or a fight of restraint against some helpless victim.

He often forced himself to push past his lack of desire to watch the match before his - the inability to help a weak competitor despite being only meters away was intensely disheartening - but frequently he knew he was to fight the victor of a match and that strategically he must bring himself witness whatever bloodbath played out.

He was focusing on the hissing, bipedal bird-esque alien that was had an iridescent covering that was intermediary scales and feathers that ended in wickedly sharp points. It had used a serrated beak to rip the still-twitching circulatory system from the screaming form of its last opponent. Shiro hoped it would be defeated by whatever poor creature faced it before him, getting close enough to put his hand through the feather-scales would be difficult and he was not sure how thick they were, -If he would have to hack away to create an opening to even injure. The likelihood of him ending a fight of that kind anything close to unscathed was scant.

The figure that was shoved out onto the sand next was not some defenseless waif, nor was it some brawler. It was the six limbed hulking form of Solaan.

Shiro watched, wide-eyed, his parched eyes drinking in the sight of the friend he had been treated to only infrequent glimpses of in months. They looked little changed, fur perhaps a hint duller and thinner and something in their face held a deep weariness.

They rolled both sets of shoulders, limbering up their joints and sending ripples rustling through their purplish fur.

They stepped into the central area of the arena and evaluated the bird-like opponent with a calm resignation. Shiro knew Solaan's methodology in trying to create an initial strategy.

With a sudden burst of motion the bird-alien darted and jabbed for Solaan's thigh, Solaan pivoted, planting their lower arms and used their body as a lever to deliver a bucking kick that sent the alien staggering feet away.

The attack and dodge continued. Solaan was the bulkier and slower of the two, and they relied on their endurance and powerful blows to retaliate against the vicious speed. The bird was in constant motion, dodging and leaping like a ricocheting shuttlecock in a volley.

The fight came to a head with a graphic collision between the beak of the bird-alien and the broad palm of Solaan's upper right hand.

Shiro's gasp was matched by the crowd and the wet puncturing sound of the action. Everything froze for part of a moment and then Solaan flexed and raised the injured arm, heaving their opponent up, the beak still driven completely through their flesh.

The alien thrashed as its feet left the ground, and with its spindly taloned legs flashing and goring deep gouges across Solaan's chest and thighs.

Shiro flinched with each strike. He was pressed as close to the force field as he dared, watching desperately.

Solaan stayed stoic and clamped a hand around one leg, the other foot's talons scored first that wrist, and then they ripped into the other arm that came to seize the free leg. Solaan gripped the legs and with their remaining unoccupied hand, reached for the neck of the bird.

The beady eye of the alien widened and then its neck oscillated with a writhing yank, it pulled free its beak and drove it pointedly into one of Solaan's eyes.

They bellowed, this injury finally snapping their control. Solaan's limbs jerked spasmodically and with a lurch, their arms jolted in opposite directions and tore the legs off the bird-like alien.

Solaan, brownish coat now patchy with blood, had managed to end the fight in better condition than their hemorrhaging opponent.

The wave of relief that Shiro felt at their survival was quickly followed by a tsunami of dread.

He was to fight the victor of the match he had just witnessed. He was going to have to face Solaan.

He was churning with scenarios. Would Solaan and he fake some sham of a fight that ended with a mutual loss? Or would he sacrifice himself for Solaan or the other way around? He doubted that Solaan would engage him in true combat like a bonafide opponent. Could Solaan even survive long enough to put on a show satisfactory to the merciless voyeurs?

His gate was opened and his feet felt so heavy in the sand. The matching dull thuds of his heart and his steps carried him across the floor. The stadium was roaring with the fervor his appearance always provoked, but that was all a negligible rush in Shiro's ears. The only sound he heard was the rasp of Solaan's labored breaths.

Solaan tried to plant their arms and heave themself up to standing, but their limbs trembled with strain and nearly gave out with the attempt. So they stayed kneeling.

Shiro stood before Solaan, feeling odd and awful being the taller one. He reached out a gentle hand and trailed his fingertips tenderly over the soaking of blood. Solaan's blood was morbidly beautiful. It disgusted and pained Shiro for what it was - the life of his friend pulsing out over his fingers - but it was fascinatingly different from most hemoglobin-based bloods. Solaan's blood was a teal blue and shimmered with a golden metallic sheen. And it was painted over both of them.

Solaan shifted their weight and freed a hand from holding themself up and covered Shiro's. Somehow, through the likely-crippling pain of their bleeding eye, through the damage to their body, through their fear, they managed to soften their gaze and smile at Shiro.

It was Shiro whose breath shuddered in a sob as if he were the one nearly gutted. Solaan slid Shiro's prosthetic hand down to cup their chin and throat, and Shiro felt the rumble of their speech resonate up it.

"It is good to see you. And to see that you have not lost yourself to let the fight become easier."

Shiro was momentarily taken aback, he expected an immediate addressal of the matter of the fight at hand.

"I… No, of course not." He paused. There were so many things he suddenly needed to say. They were not living a situation with allowances for regrets or ignoring opportunities. "I didn't want to let you down."

Solaan met his honesty with equal gravity. "You _could not_ have let me down."

"I've tried to do as you said, to save people by getting them sent off and to only kill the-" His rush of words was interrupted.

"I know. I know and you have done well." Solaan's smile, still battling against the tightness of a grimace of pain, grew a little. Now they were interrupted.

The crowd had not been content to sit idle as they caught up. The baying for blood grew in fervor and suddenly Shiro noticed a Galra with a handheld control panel standing at one of the arena's entrances and staring at him. The second Shiro made eye-contact with him, the Galra's countenance turned smug and he manipulated something.

Shiro staggered, a shout leaving him, as his body was wracked with electric pain. It was not a lengthy sensation, he was left gasping after only a moment and a cold and clear voice ordered him to "Fight!".

He tried to muster himself, staring at Solaan, but found he could only refuse.

He was shocked again, this time leaving him crouched in the sand with a hand planted to support himself. Now it was Solaan giving orders.

"Shiro, you have to do something. They'll do that until you pass out or die and then I'll face whomever comes after you."

"What would you have me do?" Shiro didn't like either option.

"You have to kill me."

"NO!" That got Shiro up off the sand and back to his previous position before Solaan.

"I will not survive these wounds much longer. If not you, then the next competitor will kill me. And I would rather it was you than something brutal." Solaan was so serious. Shiro was running his options through his mind and did not like any of them. He had no desire to see Solaan torn apart by someone else, but to kill them himself was a nightmarish prospect.

He placed his prosthetic hand to their throat, and they met his gaze with a composed readiness. Shiro lit his hand and found himself frozen in incapacity.

This was the scenario he was tortured with, this was his terror, putting his hand through a loved one. He had performed this act countless times in hallucinations to dozens of people, but he knew this was real. This was not Haggar pulling the strings this was his own volition.

The glow of his hand turned off and he dropped it limply.

"I can't. Solaan I'm sorry but I can't." His voice sounded breathy and whiny to his own ears.

"I understand. I should not have asked." Solaan did not sound accusative. Shiro felt even lower with that. Solaan had trusted him to do one basic thing he had done so many times before, he had killed so many except the one person who had actually wanted him to do it.

Inspiration struck him, because he could not just abandon Solaan to the blade of another. He had a third option.

He stood tall and stared around the crowd, garnering their attention and his own voice declaring an ultimatum with his own alit hand held to his throat. Either Solaan was taken to a work colony or he, the titular Champion, would never fight again.

It took a staredown of conviction and sheer stubbornness cultivated out of the Wayne household, but it apparently worked.

Solaan was removed from the arena with breath still in their chest. And Shiro was left with nothing of them but hopes and doubts.

For all he knew, all his supposed leverage of popularity was a sham and worthless and he was merely condemning Solaan to a future death behind shut doors. There was no guarantee, he had no rights and no real say on what they did.

But he had been an incapable coward when faced with the surer solution.

Were these benevolent acts of violence against people he loved his curse? How many times must he use the sharp side of a sword to save? And was it really more merciful than death? His knowledge of the work colonies was limited and fragmentary, combinations of hopeful imaginings, Galra propaganda, and threats from guards.

They might be simply worked to death, a slow and painful dragged out process. Or they could be kept alive and tortured in worse ways in colonies far from any regulatory supervision of the mainstream Empire.

The injuries he inflicted may just be the first in an endless onslaught of suffering.

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Shiro had little chance to see other prisoners outside of gladiator matches or passing by others surrounded by an equal number of sentry robots in the corridors. He was kept in a solitary cell, he was fed in that cell, and after his fights he was now often the only survivor being healed in the medical facilities. Or he was being taken to Haggar's chamber of horrors or some other lab for experimentation. There was little socialization, and with Solaan gone, there was no one to seek out if he had been allowed in a crowd.

But anomalies in any surety could crop up, and Shiro was being escorted after an exhausting match, bruised and stumbling and desperate for the horizontal surface in his cell that was at least mostly safe to collapse on, when the screeching blare of an alarm went filled the corridor. Shiro had pieced together an observation of the severity scale of various Galra alarms and this one was blaring with importance. He had little else to do with his downtime. When he was too exhausted to exercise he could only listen to the ambient noise - the hydraulics of doors, the ringing clip of sentry steps, the occasional scream.

His escorts this time were a mix of flesh and metal. The two Galra guards exchanged glances over his head, looking through him as a ragged prisoner, a non-entity, and both shrugged and frowned. Rapidly, they growled orders to the two robots and those sprinted down the corridor, presumably towards the commotion.

Suddenly Shiro was grabbed around the bicep and hauled bodily around a corner and stopped in front of a closed cell door. It was a larger cell, like the one he had shared with Solaan and others in those early weeks.

The guard not holding him partially off the floor slapped her hand against the door control and as soon as it opened he was rudely tossed in. He stumbled as the door shut behind him and heard a muttered "That counts as temporarily securing any in-transit prisoners right?" between the guards.

His eyes adjusted to the darkened light and he was met with five sets of eyes. Three were species he had seen or fought before, two were tall vermiform beings that swayed hypnotically and twined around each other in an embrace. It would have been almost cute but for the fear in their eyes.

In fact, all of the beings in the room were ones he would have immediately decided to try to get sent to the labor colony if he faced them on the sand.

He turned to the most calm looking person in the room, a slender but humanoid being with brightly colored segments of color, and raised his hands in a peaceful, beseeching gesture. He was desperate to assure his harmlessness to all present as swiftly as possible.

He had little chance.

There was a movement behind him - he had not attentively tracked the motion of every person in the room and let one get behind him. He fought down his combat instincts, determined to show his friendly intent, to show that he was just another helpless prisoner trapped in this situation and thus akin to them, and was wholly unprepared for the sudden punching pain to the back of his lower left rib cage.

He gasped and dropped to his knees, breathing suddenly laborious, and groped behind himself, the motion of his shoulders pulling and twisting the painful flesh. He felt a rough edged piece of hard material, plastic or bone, it was difficult to say, that was wrapped in a layered strip of frayed and greasy fabric.

He left the weapon in his flesh, it was keeping at least some of the blood on this inside and he did not feel like contorting and cauterizing himself when he knew there was at least some chance the guards would return and take him to a proper facility with a far less painful repair tactic.

The other inhabitants of the cell, even the bold one who had stabbed him, were keeping their distance now, huddled against the walls. He little blamed them. They likely thought him some wounded animal, burning to lash out at anything that dared come close.

And he felt little better than that.

It was an agonizing wait after that. Shiro lying on the ground in a twisted pose that relieved the most pain from his injury and focusing on breathing. In the back of his mind there was a countdown going, there was only so long he dared wait for guards to return before he lost too much blood. Before that threshold he would have to take matters into his own hands and close the wound. But until then he would wait.

The guards, only the female the same as before, returned before he had to take measures of self preservation and collected him off the floor with a scoff of disgust. He was healed by the apathetic infirmary and with little ceremony returned to his cell for his usual solitary rumination.

He had been shanked. In prison. The absurdity of this being the prison cliche he got to experience, despite being in deep space, was not lost on him. He tried to focus on that near-amusement, trying to think about how much Jason would laugh at that, at the face Dick would have made, at how Keith would have scoffed. His brain kept slipping down the alternative train of thought.

This was painful evidence that he was no hero. He was seen as something to be feared and put down by a makeshift weapon by a prisoner his instinct was to save. He was not viewed as a savior or a Champion of these common folk. He was seen as the enemy, - the one to be struck down, - to be feared.

It rankled and rotted in his heart. Was this how superheroes whose populace disliked them felt? Or worse, was this how villians saw themselves? A hero working against the actual wishes of the people for some grander scheme that he thought he understood?

He had been shanked and it felt like a betrayal to all of the efforts he thought he had been making on behalf of the weaker.

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The arena was becoming a preferable destination. This was not an opinion Shiro had ever anticipated harboring, but as his escort of uncaring Galra robot drones turned more and more often to the right instead of the left at the crossroads of the main corridor and led him away from the arena and towards either a scientist or Haggar's workroom, he found himself wishing for the crowds and sand.

At least when he was fighting he had some facsimile of control. He may not be there by choice and his opponents were never of his own selection, but he picked which moment to lunge, where to strike, how to move and feel. It was the only time he felt truly alive and present in the moment.

Time in his lilac-lit cell droned in the monotony of echoed robotic footsteps clanking past in a clockwork rhythm broken only by the delivery of food. But in the arena it was a series of heartbeats pulsing fast and roaring with his blood and the crowd.

And there he picked which blows to give and take. And the pain, for there was often pain, was natural - in that it came from injury and was localized at a source rather than from some inflicted cruelty.

When he was strapped to a table, or forced into a tank of fluid, or scanned or prodded, he had no control. When they alit every nerve in his body at once, or worked through them systematically, the pain was the kind that writhed under his skin and churned his gut. A seemingly endless discomfort made worse by the callous interest of the scientists.

Time with Haggar was foul beyond that. When she was not using her powers to wrack his body with agony, she invaded his mind with distorted visions of his loved ones that grew more disturbing and detailed with each session.

Sometimes they were memories, nights in the Batcave with his siblings, or gatherings with the Justice League, or cadets he had grown up with in the Garrison, other times they were new creations. Being pitted against Solaan, or Bruce, or Dick, or Jason, or Keith or someone, in the arena and forced to fight desperately to the death.

The fights against Bruce were the worst.

Haggar's Batman grew more and more lifelike and now vocalized scorn and disappointment just as often as it did gruff affection.

Lingering doubts about his actions were dragged into the light in the most painful way.

It was one thing to think on the darkest of nights about the way he was betraying nearly every doctrine his adoptive father had ever instilled a belief in. - But to hear him say it. To look into Bruce's eyes, for now Batman was just as often a maskless Bruce Wayne in training clothes, and see disapproval, to see the disappointment, to see the resignation to failure, cut Shiro to the quick.

For Shiro was not breaking the "no killing" rule in some questionable accident. Irregardless of the utter lack of pleasure he took in killing, he deliberately went for lethal blows and no circumstantial justification he offered in pleading gasps from beseeching lips could undo the intent behind each bloody victory.

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It was not that escape had never occurred to Shiro, but rather that it had been a pipedream of impracticality. Even if he made it out of his cell or out of his bonds, he would still have to make it through a maze of patrolled corridors, and even if he made it that far, he was in space, which created an even greater complication of transportation.

But he was a scion of Batman, so despite his misgivings he was prepared to leap at any opportunity. And Ulaz was offering a chance that accounted for many of the potential problems Shiro had been most daunted by. He had mapped every corridor he had had the privilege of being forced down, and kept a mental count of steps and shift changes. He could handle navigating the corridors and there was a spacecraft waiting at the end.

The plan as soon as he was out of Galra range was to contact the Green Lantern Corps and through them one of the Earth Lanterns and the Justice League and his father. He was mentally prepared for complications in this, without Galra translation technology he was likely going to be reduced to pointing at something green and at a ring or his finger and hoping the Corps had widespread awareness in that area.

Instead, to his shock, he was met with familiar constellations and passing by planets he was intimately familiar with. He was in the Solar System. The Galra were in the Solar System. Relief was warring with panic in him. On the one hand, he could directly land on Earth, but on the other the Galra would see one of their own hijacked ships landing there.

He would have to hope he created enough of a warning for the Watchtower and other interplanetary defenses to prepare.

Some part of him was even hopeful that he would be hailed by the Watchtower or met halfway by J'onn or Superman.

Instead, he was greeted with nothing. He had little capacity to dwell on that rather concerning fact. His descent and landing were dangerous and difficult enough that it took much of his piloting expertise to make it survivable. He had spent a lot of time in simulators learning how to crash ships in ways that kept the cabin intact, but this was an unfamiliar ship and simulations could never quite capture the desperation of how badly he wanted to live.

He was rather proud of himself for landing not only on the same continent as the Garrison, but in the same desert as the headquarters. It would be hard for either the League or military to miss the smoke and flames of a crashing spaceship, he knew he would not be left waiting long. He smiled at the sandstone filling the viewport and gave into the unconsciousness his throbbing temple begged for.

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A/N So that's the end of Shiro's imprisonment. Ik this is a lot of build up without actual Batfam interaction, but the way I want to tell this story is going through how Shiro's outlook on the canon story would be different with a Batfam background. SO we've got next chapter which is like Bruce and Batfam hearing about shit on earth, then a chapter of Shiro with the Voltron squad and honestly like the actual Shiro and DC characters present interactions will happen in a few chapters but the like pacing of this fic is more rushed at the start because I want the exposition to build up to the like last 5 chapters which will be slower paced.

Honestly I had about 4 different voltron fic ideas, and bc i know myself and that I would only have the dedication to do one long fic, I combined them so like Solaan was created for a different story and I really liked them and they fill in some plot holes so.

ALso! Duke Thomas! introduced next chapter!


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